


The Box in the Attic

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hoilday angst, Hurt/Comfort, I promise they're alive, M/M, Marriage, Reconciliation, they get back together i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Most years, he and Marco would have erected and decorated their Christmas tree together, while some sickeningly festive Christmas music played throughout the house - always Marco’s choice - but not this year. This year, he assembles the plastic tree alone and in silence. This year he unboxes and unwraps the ornaments with only the rustling of packing paper to keep him company.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	The Box in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pilindiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/gifts).



> a brief little holiday ficlet I wrote for Dani's christmas card this year! love you boo!

Jean has avoided the box in the attic for three weeks. Three weeks into December, and he hasn’t so much as pulled the attic ladder down - excuses like ‘it’s too heavy’ and ‘it’s not Christmas yet’ have abounded. But now it’s four days until Christmas, and Jean’s brain refuses to let him ignore the box anymore. And so, with heavy reluctance, Jean ventures up to the attic and hauls down his and Marco’s - well, now it’s just  _ his  _ \- box of Christmas decorations. 

Most years, he and Marco would have erected and decorated their Christmas tree together, while some sickeningly festive Christmas music played throughout the house - always Marco’s choice - but not this year. This year, he assembles the plastic tree alone and in silence. This year he unboxes and unwraps the ornaments with only the rustling of packing paper to keep him company. 

Marco hasn’t been at the house for over a month now. Five long weeks they haven’t slept in the same bed, shared the same space, breathed the same air. Hell, they’ve barely even spoken over the last four. It takes a lot of effort, but Jean continuously reminds himself that they’d  _ both  _ agreed it would be for the best. They’d been fighting too much, shouting too often, refusing to agree or compromise more often than not. They’d  _ agreed _ that a trial separation would be in both of their best interests. But that fact doesn’t make the decision hurt any less. 

Jean pauses unboxing the ornaments, the couch littered with packing paper and random Christmas-themed ornaments he and Marco had picked out together, and fiddles with the platinum ring that still lives on his left ring finger. He sighs and snatches another ornament up from the box, unwrapping it more aggressively than he needs to; but the moment the paper is pulled away, Jean freezes. 

He stares at the ornament in his palm - two snowmen leaning close to each other, with a heart surrounding them, and the words “Our First Christmas” below them. They’d had a December wedding, with Christmas just around the corner, and Marco’s grandmother had gifted them this ornament on their wedding day. 

“So you’ll always remember how special it was,” she had told them, a fond smile tickling her aged features.

Jean doesn’t mean to, but his fingers clench around it of their own accord. A tear slip down his cheek. Before he can think to talk himself out of it, Jean digs his phone out of his pocket and dials Marco’s familiar number. 

Marco answers on the third ring with a soft ‘hello’, and Jean can’t bring himself to speak. Marco waits - patient as always - for Jean to speak, before finally saying Jean’s name on the breath of a sigh.

“Yeah,” Jean ekes out, “It’s me.” 

“What’s up?” Marco asks him, voice feigning casualness and ignorance, but still heavy with significance this season has held for them both these last ten years. 

“I’m uh, I’m putting up the tree.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jean says, trying to stop the quiver threatening his voice. 

Marco doesn’t reply, but he breathes a soft breath into the receiver. Jean feels his eyes well up more and another tear slides down his cheek. He wipes it away with quick, frustrated intention. 

“I…” Jean stammers, before managing to swallow the painful lump in his throat, “I miss you… A lot.” 

Marco breathes again, long and low. 

“I miss you, too.” 

“I found the ornament your grandma gave us when we got married - the uh, the one with the snowmen - and I just… needed to hear your voice.” 

Marco hums. It’s a sound Jean is all too familiar with, the sound Jean knows Marco makes when he’s overwhelmed and doesn’t know what else to say. 

“So, what we do, Jean?” 

Jean knows Marco is asking about something bigger than the ornament, bigger than the tree, bigger than the holidays. He’s asking about  _ them _ , about this thing they’d kept alive between them for a decade, that hungry love that has lived viciously inside them both, even through a month of separation. 

Jean doesn’t know the answer to Marco’s question, so he says the only thing he can think to say: “You could come help me decorate the tree… Make this place feel a little bit like home again.” 

The quiver, the ache, and the insecurity in his voice are palpable, and he knows how easily Marco picks up on them. You spend ten years learning the ins and outs of another human being and their details become as obvious as their outline. But Marco, however, says nothing in reply. Instead, he sighs again, and Jean can practically  _ see _ him rubbing his forehead in frustration and concern. Jean is ready then to tell him goodbye, to hang up and accept that perhaps last year was the last Christmas they would spend together. In that moment, he is almost ready to let go. 

But after another beat, something rustles and jingles - like keys - on the other end of the phone. Marco sniffles, his voice thick and watery when he finally speaks. 

“I’ll be there in ten.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i hate to make them hurt, but i love to see them work shit out. 
> 
> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche/), or just holler at me in the comments.


End file.
